Farewell, Papa
by Daastan Go
Summary: A parting that took place in the forest, and a farewell full of hope.


**Farewell, Papa**

 **Disclaimer** : Naruto is Kishimoto's property. It's quite impossible to make money from this.

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She sloshed through the muddy ground at a half-jog. Morning had heralded a rainy day. It was drizzling and raindrops felt cool on her plump cheeks. A misty cold fogged the glasses precariously perched on her pink nose, but she wiped a hasty hand across them. She could see a bit better now.

The forest was just beginning to rise out of its slumber: crickets created such loud noises in the bushes when the wind disturbed their morning song; a few birds sat singing in the dense trees. Wind gained a little speed, and a new sighing sound filled her head. She knew she had to run fast. Putting chakra underneath her sandals, she felt herself gain a little height. And she ran and she ran fast, speeding past the trees flickering like green flashes in the corners of her vision.

Red came on and she did not even know—an odd feeling rose from her breast. It overcame the innocence in her and poured out of her eyes unabated. She turned the burning sob into a loud sigh. She was an Uchiha and Uchiha preserved their honour. She had read it on a sacred stone outside the dilapidated village of her father's people—her people. All that remained in that forlorn place, encrusted with gloom, were bits of wavering shadows, smells of moss, and old stones. Everyone was gone. Her father was the last Uchiha. She, too, was one . . . she supposed. And a sudden elation rose in her heart like a burning Uchiha flame. Yes, she was an Uchiha: her father's daughter—the _only_ heir to his legacy.

She knew little about the word, but she knew it meant something—it was about the bond of blood. She shared it with him and he, with her. It was an inevitable blessing from the Kami, an alliance made before birth. She was soldered to him through blood and soul.

She had more of him in her than she did her mother. There was _so_ little of her in her veins, so little. And her eyes were a different colour. The right colour. The red colour. They gleamed, almost predatory on her sweet young face that bore a blush of innocence upon it. This innocence would fade when she would attain that womanly shape, bleed from the groove Nature had crafted in her form as a blessing and a curse.

But she was still an Uchiha—her father's daughter, his only daughter, an heir meant to carry the impossible burthen of his clan's long legacy. It was forged into her mind and her young blood that had yet to taste the true heat of youth. Her feet did not falter, and a smile lingered on the lips as though a wandering man in search of something . . . something . . .

A feeling clasped hold of her soul and the blinking lights between the branches did not matter. The heavy smell of spring was in her nose, sweet and fleeting; but she kept running, feeling the wind collide with her face, skin rippling. Coils of muscles in her legs tensed. She could see the chakra roil like a storm in his body, just beyond the trees—just beyond there!

And she knew she could not resist the temptation of looking upon his magnificent mien, his impeccable, yet cold, countenance. Her legs did not stop, and she ran beyond the ominous barrier of shadows as he stood like a dark silhouette with the searing, vicious light of sun behind him.

Everything changed into his chakra before her eyes. It bled and became one with the world, permeating its wriggling fibres and throbbing veins. And it went into her heart like a kind of overpowering and conquering animal that laid waste to its prey. It did not matter to her then; she had surrendered her heart to him long ago. It was always meant to submit before the one that gave her her blood, her soul.

Hidden in those memories were such dark days of longing. Father, her beautiful father, gone—a wayfaring man lost behind the boughs of lovely trees, a dusty-picture on the table that mattered little. But he was here now, and now was all that mattered. She ran into him, colliding with his form, making that chakra ripple upon contact. It rushed through her body like a beautiful feeling of abandonment.

Her eyes closed, and wrapping her arms tightly around his waist, she burrowed her face into his stomach, breathing in the musk that issued forth from his shirt. Everything became so quiet, and she was transported to a tranquil and quiet world full of wonder. He remained still for a moment. Then she felt a hesitant hand on her head.

She tilted her head back and looked up into his eyes that resonated with the mark they both shared. His bearing was kingly to her, sublime, and thing of _such_ beauty. His face was calm, framed between dark hair they both shared. He did not seem angry or kind, he just looked at her, his features unrelenting in the face of her love. At last, her resolve crumbled, lips began to tremble with grief, and she whispered out softly: "papa . . . "

His fingers threaded deep into her wind-blown, tar-black hair, bringing her cheek against his stomach, and he held her there. She stood like that, trembling against him, weeping into the corners of the shirt she held in her hands.

He did not say anything—she did not say anything. It was just silence between them now and mellow sounds of the wind and the forest . . . and the distant echoes of a woman's voice, who had held her in her silent womb, who would never taste the intimacy she so craved again. It was just distance, distance, and more distance between them, a never-ending chasm of false-faces she clung to so religiously.

But she was not _just_ a girl with a womb for his form. No, she was a part of him like _she_ would never be. It was a right for her and a wish for the other one. It was different for them. The blood made it different. Then the hand behind her head became soft, and she strained her pretty little face to look up at him again. And this time, the faintest smile, like the briefest touch of a cool morning breeze against the lingering dews upon the leaves, graced his lips.

Her lips, too, trembled into a warm smile. His fingers traced the uneven paths made by the tears on her soft, rosy cheeks, drying them. She unwrapped her arms from him, and he patted her head once before he backed away wordlessly. Then he turned around and began walking silently towards the forest. And she kept watching till he went into the shadows between the trees, his black cloak billowing behind him like another shadow.

So he tore himself away from the woman's pleas, who kept her womb hopelessly vacant for his seed, but this was different. It was sublime. It was pure. It was love . . . he would come for her again. It was just the wait that was painful. And before she knew it, her heart and mind were made to whisper to him, whisper to the winds: "farewell, papa . . . "

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 **The End**


End file.
